


A Short History of Chemistry

by morelenmir



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, not an au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:59:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morelenmir/pseuds/morelenmir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alan Deaton isn't the only protector of a werewolf family in Beacon Hills. Adrian Harris guarded the Millers until the expecting couple was murdered and he was left with a freshly orphaned child.</p><p>Written long enough ago for half of the reasons this was even written to be kiboshed, thanks to Jeff Davis revealing a few things. Namely, born werewolves don't automatically have blue eyes. Argh. Anyway, this was written for the Teen Wolf fanfiction contest last September.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Short History of Chemistry

**Author's Note:**

> Set pre-series, continues to post-Season 2 finale. Spoilers ahoy!
> 
> Warning for death and some...kinda torture? Momentarily causing a baby pain in order to protect it down the line.

Adrian had seen the bodies. Adrian had seen the bodies, and there isn’t a day that goes by he wishes he hadn’t. Maggie, recognizable only by her mass of dark curls, matted with blood and bone and glass and metal, and her bulging belly. The other corpse was immediately determined to be Gordon, because who else would have been with her, would’ve curled himself protectively around his pregnant wife.

The call came at 9:29pm; Adrian was the Miller’s emergency contact. Even as he’d begun his mad dash through the apartment, grabbing keys and wallet, hopping crazily as he pulled on one shoe after the other, hoping wildly there was still a chance, the paramedic on the other end of the line had told him, as carefully as possible, that he would be needed to identify them. Maggie had her paranoid streak—a well-deserved one, in her defense—and always carried a card with his cell phone number printed on it.

After Gordon and Maggie had been extracted from the crumpled din of metal that had been their SUV, the EMTs couldn’t find identification, only the wilted paper card in her left hip pocket. The lack of ID had immediately told Adrian the car accident was anything but. The expecting couple was incredibly safety-conscious, to the point where even Adrian considered their habit of double- and triple-checking everything anal-retentive. Again Adrian began to slow, his movements an abrupt series of starts and stops, when the paramedic’s words finally filtered through his shock-dulled mind.

“Could you repeat that?”

Their unborn baby was still alive and, as soon as the ambulance pulled into Beacon Hills Hospital, the child was going to be removed from Maggie’s womb.

“Is, is that even possible?” There was shouting in the background and the medic took a few horrifically long seconds to confirm that it was possible, they were going to save the baby, and he needed to be there. He ran three red lights and dodged an ambling waste truck. As it was, he made it to the hospital eight minutes after they arrived. Barred from watching the operation, he was taken downstairs to identify Gordon’s corpse.

That’s when the suspicions curdled, reached up and grabbed him by the throat. Gordon was indeed mangled from the accident, but there was one detail that brought every hair on the back of his neck to attention.

The throat was slashed open, windpipe laid bare. It was difficult to view objectively when he knew what had killed his friend. The glass embedded deep in the neck led the coroner to believe the windshield had exploded inward, bleeding the immobilized man to death. The murderer was apparent to Adrian, however, especially after he saw Maggie’s similar condition. A werewolf, or multiple werewolves, had killed them. Ripped the couple open and then cleverly covered their tracks by staging a crash. The only other werewolves in Beacon Hills was the Hale pack; he hadn’t heard of any bloodthirsty members but there was no one else who could’ve left them like that.

The records were ruled inconclusive and closed, and attention was turned to the remaining member of the Miller family-that-never-was. Adrian named him Jackson, the name chosen by his parents, and then fled. Figuratively; he remained in Beacon Hills but never announced his claim on the boy. Jackson was adopted by wealthy parents— _he’ll never want_ —and the most contact he ever had was when he was still in the hospital, and that was only because Adrian needed to take drastic steps.

He couldn’t raise an orphaned werewolf and he certainly wasn’t going to turn the infant over to unknowledgeable idiots. No, measures had to be taken.

Adrian dreams about that night too. Gagging little Jackson so his cries wouldn’t draw the nurses; preparing the aconite; seeing young eyes spark sapphire blue with an incandescent rage that evolved into uncomprehending pain. He’s never forgotten how the weak body writhed in anguish under his hand as the mixture of freshly ground yellow monkshood tubers and wolfsbane ash ransacked Jackson.

Tiny fangs emerged around the strip of cloth in the child’s mouth. Setting the empty syringe aside, Adrian had gently touched one incisor, the faint awe always provoked by their transformed selves tingling around him. Then they retracted, leaving bare gums. Jackson opened bleary eyes the deep blue of a newborn human. It had worked. Adrian’s sigh of relief rattled in his throat, shaking him. When he’d straightened from his momentary slump, he met Jackson’s gaze and froze.

The boy held his gaze impassively and Adrian thought, with growing horror, “He’s never going to forget this. The torment will forever remain in his mind.” In a numb haze he’d gathered his things, removed any traces of his unsanctioned presence, went home, and drank half a bottle of scotch. He would’ve drunk more but he’d only the half to start with.

Adrian no longer recalls how many times he’s woken with a start, heart racing frantically, sweat sticky on his forehead and neck. What he does know is with the presence of copious amounts of alcohol in his system, he doesn’t dream. The horrific blankness after coming out of a blackout, he discovered quickly, is preferable to remembering night after night. Within a year he’d forsaken sobriety altogether, dimly looking over growing Jackson from a distance.

That couldn’t be “looking over”, though, even in the vaguest sense—there was a level of caring implied that he keeps himself too medicated to actually feel. He rationalizes the lack away, telling himself the Whittemores are good to him, taking care of every need. He is healthy and human, and Adrian isn’t needed. He is the protector of the Miller pack, or he was, and a dull sense of obligation spurs him to keep his fingertips in the larger world, keep track of information on packs and hunters’ movements.

Sometimes he hears howling and panic reaches through the alcoholic haze, and then he’s panting, searching for an escape route because they killed Maggie and Gordon and they’re here to finish the job. On these occasions he drinks himself into a stupor that lasts for days. Scratching out of one of these black pits, he finds a message on his phone and discovers he’s lost his teaching position at the university. Adrian disappears directly back into the yawning, welcoming darkness.

* * *

It’s Jackson’s tenth birthday and Adrian is celebrating at the bar conveniently located around the corner from his new apartment. It’s not as nice as his house was, but an entire house for just one man is too much, and too much to pay for. The studio apartment is filled with chemistry books, lore books, and countless volumes of lost history while unpacked boxes are crammed into the miniscule available space. He thinks there’s a bed somewhere; the old leather recliner is easier to find, however.

Jackson is ten and he knows he’s adopted, has known for a year. The amber liquid in Adrian’s glass leaves a trail of fire down his throat. The scotch—or maybe whiskey, his taste buds are far past working—gleams as he holds it up, squints at the fluorescent “Open” sign through the glass. _Happy birthday, Jackson_ , he toasts silently. _Mazel tov, you’re still human._ He empties the shot glass and taps it on the bar. It’s only 9pm and he wants to completely forget today.

“Hey.” The female voice is throaty, enticing as the warmth slowly filling his insides. She’s also stunning, he notes as he turns to the speaker. Honey-colored hair, large, inviting eyes, and a neckline that doesn’t stop. Adrian tries to recover from the incredible cleavage, gropes for his refilled whiskey—scotch?—and misses.

“Hi.”

She smiles when he replies, a brief flash of straight white teeth, and heat blossoms in his belly. “I’ve seen you around, I think.” She tugs at a golden curl; he watches it bounce, mesmerized. “Aren’t you a teacher? The high school?”

A dash of ice water in his veins. Even the community college wouldn’t take him. “Yes,” he says flatly, turning back to his waiting shot. “Chemistry.”

He can _feel_ her light up. “Really? I loved chemistry!”

Shot readied in hand, he glances over with an arched eyebrow. “Is that so.” He tosses it back without ceremony, signaling the bartender.

“It’s a wonderful subject. Logical, exciting, evolving while still holding to the rules…” She leans close and Adrian can’t quite place where he’s seen her. The feeling of knowing her somehow niggles uncomfortably as she continues with a sincere grin, “I, uh, was kind of shunned for being such a nerd about it.”

“What, really?”

Five minutes later they’re swapping stories about experiments gone wildly wrong. “And the carbon chain, it was C4H10!”

Katie’s mouth drops open. “Butane? But the oxidation would cause--”

“An explosion, yes! I found a small crater in my lab in the morning,” Adrian nearly howls, slapping the countertop with the palm of his hand. He glances at her; she’s laughing into her hands, eyes squeezed shut in mirth. Her hair is cascading golden over her shoulders and her necklace swings out from between her breasts. It turns, glints in the muted light, and his blood turns to ice. The moon over a wolf. He knows what and who that represents; it’s part of his job to know.

Argent.

That tidbit of knowledge into place, the remaining puzzle pieces slot together. “Katie” is in fact Kate Argent, daughter in an established werewolf hunter family. The Argents obey the code, yet young Kate is a wildcard, headstrong in her perceived impregnability. And the questions she’s been asking, cozying up to him for information… If she wants to play with fire, Adrian decides, then so be it. He won’t stand in her way, not if her goal is as he believes: decimation of the Hale pack. The ‘wolves that killed his.

He settles into his seat, purpose sliding over him like a missed mantle. Adrian’s been too afraid to strike at the Hales, too mindful of the large pack’s strength, too confused. Kate, on the other hand, presents an opportunity for revenge that won’t lead back to him. “Fire, though,” he murmurs, intentionally lowering his voice a smooth octave. “Fire is outright fascinating.” Something dances in her eyes, hooded and dangerous and lustful, and he’s pretty certain he may be going to hell, but this many whiskeys—no, definitely scotch—in, Adrian doesn’t particularly care about his immortal soul’s permanent destination.

Kate Argent leans closer, propping an elbow on the bar, and he gives her exactly what she wants.

* * *

The Argent girl kills everyone. There are children in the Hale household, humans even. The house burns and the souls trapped inside wither into ash that drifts fitfully across Beacon Hills for days.

Adrian’s nightmares return. He pours all of his liquor down the chipped kitchen sink, methodically smashes the bottles, sweeps them into the garbage bin, and endures the nightly horrors.

* * *

Five years later it’s September 14 and Adrian is reading through the freshman student roster when he fumbles over a name toward the end. Jackson can’t be that old already. For a few moments he thinks that maybe he’s in an alcohol-caused coma and dreamt everything from the fire on.

“Jackson Whittemore?”

“Present.” The boy in the middle of the lecture room is indolent, sprawled in his seat like a king. His haughty blue eyes lift to briefly meet Adrian’s and then flick away in dismissal. Adrian can’t speak, feels his throat working desperately against the shock holding him still. The silence drags too long and someone titters in the back right corner. Jackson’s gaze ponderously swings back like a pendulum. “Yes?” he bites, an eyebrow curving a sarcastic arch, unconsciously mimicking Maggie.

“Just delighted you know your name,” Adrian fires back. He scrambles, falls upon his tried-and-true method, and narrows his eyes at Jackson. “You’d be surprised how often students fail tests because they apparently don’t know how to write their names upon the sheet,” he says archly. A snort, this time, from the same corner. He arrows in on a slouching boy, all awkward limbs and shorn head. Consulting the roster swiftly, he calls “Mr. Stilinski.” The boy’s eyes widen and he hastily sits ramrod straight. “Thank you for volunteering the class for a pop quiz.”

Stilinski’s mouth falls open. “But it’s the first day of school!”

“And I’m very eager to know what’s in those perplexedly empty minds. Papers!” Groans fill the classroom, as well as unhappy mutters aimed at the Sheriff’s son. Striding around his desk, Adrian catches sight of Jackson. He’s digging out his notebook, but a wide grin is on his face as his eyes dart toward Stilinski. The expression becomes a pointed smirk, clearly laughing at the hapless teenager.

The sinking feeling is more of a rolling wave than actual sinking when Adrian realizes how the next four years are going to progress. He will put Stilinski down to build Jackson up. It’s against everything he knows about teaching and encouraging students, but it’s for Jackson. If there’s anything he can do for the boy technically still under his protection, he knows he will do it, even if it’s something as slight as being intentionally harsh on one student.

God probably can’t help him, as he knows he’s already destined for hell, yet nothing’s going to stop him from giving Jackson a step up wherever possible.

* * *

“If you ever need anything, Jackson, just let me know.”

* * *

He’s reading through the junior student roster. Most of the list is memorized, recognizing at a glance several third-year offenders who have returned to further mangle the chemistry lab.

“Jackson Whittemore.”

“Here.”

It takes a moment to place both the lazy tone and the location. Jackson is near a window, Lydia Martin seated on his left. What takes him aback, however, are the people around him. Danny Mahealani is behind Lydia, poking her with the eraser tip of a pencil, while she’s playfully kicking Scott McCall in front of her. Isaac Lahey is passing Jackson a pencil sharpener, grinning at his lacrosse captain, and from behind Jackson, “Please, please, _please_ call me Stiles” Stilinski rolls his eyes fondly at both of them. Jackson snorts in mock irritation and Allison Argent snickers quietly from his right. He’s sprawled into his chair as always, yet it seems less like holding court and more like a circle. A tight knot of people comfortable with each other, sharing space effortlessly.

Internal alarms and sirens are wailing and he starts forward involuntarily. He’s aware Isaac joined Derek Hale’s miniscule pack last fall, while Scott did…something with his werewolf self, possibly with Allison, and dear God he wants to leave this train of thought now. Jackson involved with werewolves and hunters? He’s clearly missed something over summer break. After Jackson’s strange behavior during the previous school year had died away in the spring, he’d stopped worrying about the boy

Jackson’s regard swings back to Adrian. His eyebrow travels up into a loose arch. “Yes?” A crumpled note skitters across his desk, lobbed clumsily by Scott. His hand darts forward and arrests the paper ball, tossing Scott a taunting glance. He passes it to Allison, who squeezes his hand with a giggled “Thanks.”

Any ability to use the English language drops right out of Adrian’s mouth.

“It’s good to see you again, Jackson.” He can’t help the untalented blurt, already cursing mentally as Jackson’s eyebrows pinch.

“Yeah, you too, Mr. Harris,” he shrugs. The trademark condescension is present in his tone, but it’s so tempered to be nearly unnoticeable.

Tempered by what? He steps back, bumping into his desk, to look at the entire cluster in the back right corner of his lecture room. The ‘wolves are exhibiting pack behavior, their sheer closeness the dominant factor in his observance, but Jackson isn’t… His heart twists. Is he so far removed from his role as guardian that Jackson manifested and he never knew? A peace is settled in the boy’s face that’s never been present his entire life, batting away Isaac’s fingers without looking to stop him from taking his pencil sharpener back from Jackson’s desk. Isaac pouts behind him and a childlike grin spreads over Jackson’s countenance.

Slowly pacing around his desk, Adrian tries to pull his attention away from the-- the pack. There isn’t a descriptor more truthful for them, and Jackson is clearly one of them, albeit human or werewolf. Resting his hands on the cool desktop, he ignores his closing throat. _Jackson has family._ He raps his knuckles on the wood and every student in the room stills. Glancing up over his glasses, he thins his lips into a severe smile, carefully not looking at his young, happy charge.

“Welcome to Chemistry.”


End file.
